


Clair de Lune

by coffinofachimera



Series: Studies In Hurricane Thunderclaps [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bay, Beach Sex, Canon Compliant, Classical Music, Harry-centric, Humor, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalizing, M/M, References to Depression, Smut, beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8382049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffinofachimera/pseuds/coffinofachimera
Summary: Harry invites Liam to spend the day at an isolated cliffside bay in rural England to relax and bask in the ocean breeze. But when Liam's mood begins to waver, Harry struggles to keep the things together as the true nature behind their trip begins to unfold.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by Liam's strange appearance in the [photos](http://thedailypayne.com/post/151608273750/liam-at-nobu-restaurant-91016) of him at the NOBU restaurant earlier in the month. This came out so much longer than I expected. I think, it is a melancholic story. I hope you enjoy!

**Rockham**  
Steep steps to the beach.  
Please avoid being cut off  
by incoming tides and  
Keep Well Clear  
of the unstable cliffs.

 

"Why did they capitalize 'keep well clear' like that?"

"Emphasis, I guess."

"I mean I know, but it's still stupid. _Keep well clear_ ," in a menacing voice; and in a normal one, "of the unstable cliffs."

" _KEEP WELL CLEAR_ of the unstable cliffs." And Harry giggles at the stupid joke.

"Do watch your step, now."

He looks down in a quick worry, expecting to find imminent danger to avoid. But it’s the same set of steps going down with no deviance in structure to call for extra caution. And Harry throws an unimpressed glance over his shoulder to Liam. "You scared me. I thought something was there," he complains. Liam seems indignant his show of concern came as an inconvenience to Harry, and gives him his own glare that misfires on account of Harry turning back around— to watch his footing. A bit nervous. Harry has turned his head down to keep a careful eye on his boots as they tap down on each step. Now he's all too conscious of it— the nature of these stairs; the precaution he really should take. Because the essentiality of it is technically disquieting, now that Liam mentions it.

The stairs he and Harry are taking down aren't made of wood or iron— they were carved out of stone on the side of a 98 meter cliff. Limestone. Not slippery yet but it could be. There’s no maintenance out here. No way no how with the nearest town being a three-meter walk away. Further into their descent, nature comes to enfold them as the cliff behind them grows taller. And thus the daunting premise of their outing is setting in: no bodyguards, phone service or civilization for miles. That sounded appealing, until they were actually coming across faded warning signs and walking down a steep cliff to an untamed ocean shore.

"How are you supposed to avoid being cut off by incoming tides, anyway?" Liam asks from behind Harry, minding his own steps down the stone stairs with his head down. A duffel bag hangs from his shoulder, and he keeps a good grip on it so it doesn't swing and throw off his balance. Harry has a messenger bag himself, stuffed with essentials for today's trip. "They just come right at you out of nowhere, don't they? That's the point, that's why they're dangerous. That's like telling someone, 'Please avoid dying' like thanks mate I'm absolutely not gonna die now. Fucking brilliant sign, that is."

Harry gives a frown at that, a sinking feeling coming down in his chest under a context Liam doesn't know about. No one does, really. But it bothers him. Enough to make him stutter. "Well I guess if you see it... you know, don't— like, if the waves look big don't get in the water. But we're not getting in the water anyway."

"You'd have to be fucking mad to get in an England beach in October."

"At like, seven in the morning."

"I checked when we got here. It's 6 degrees."

Harry gives a shiver without meaning to. He wears a dark green parka with skinny jeans he wishes were made of thicker denim. Liam is satisfied with a fat sweater over his usual attire, featuring a dark red snapback that doesn't match with anything else he's wearing. They can never agree on wardrobe appropriate for the weather. Liam has a high tolerance for the cold, while Harry has none whatsoever. "That's awful."

"Are you cold? Like, really cold?"

"A bit."

"Oh watch your step there!"

Harry gives a jump, grabbing onto the handrails with a whine. "Stop doi—!" Another disgruntled glare back at Liam. "When you do that it makes me nervous!"

"Well look down there! The stairs change."

He meant to warn Harry about the second level of the stairs waiting for them three steps down. They're made of wood and turn right to lead down along the side of the cliff. After that comes a final set of stairs that turn left again, out towards the sandy shore. Harry realizes that now, having stepped onto the wooden landing of that second flight of stairs. They're a good 60 meters above ground. His boots make a loud knocking sound as he steps around. A second chorus joining lets him know Liam is coming close behind him. He doesn't say anything, leaving Harry with an easy trail of thought as he walks over to the rails and places his hands on the wooden bar. And there he stands for a bit. Looking out into the ocean as the breeze comes from that cold horizon and blows against his face, his hair, the fake fur on his parka. Squints his eyes. The smell of the sea.

Rockham Beach.

On the north coast of Devon, Southwest England sits the small village of Mortehoe, home to green pastures, cliffs that lead to bays and rockpools below, and not much of anything else— the perfect destinations for two multimillionaires looking to get lost. Today for Liam and Harry it would be the beautiful bay facing out into the Bristol Channel, specifically. Harry was tipped off by a crew member on the set of Dunkirk while on the topic of his enthusiasm for disappearing. You park in a lot back in the village and then make a 2 kilometer coastal walk through a green pasture before reaching the stairs so conveniently decorated with a warning sign. And then you realize you're standing on a very tall cliff, and have to make a very steep descent down to get to the actual beach below. That was an adventure all on its own for Harry. And not just because he has Liam to keep him company. He's been here once before to check out the setting, but he never went down the steps before. _So far so good_ , he thinks. Giving a sigh as he takes in the sight.

"Harry, look at the waves." Liam signals with the point of his finger straight ahead, joining Harry for the momentary sightseeing as he stands by the railings. "They're so big."

Very restless, gray waves. A murky sky with a pink peach hue hidden in its undercolor, making the horizon look cold in a romantic and melancholic way. The hissing rustle of the coast makes for aesthetically pleasing background noise. From a distance, Liam and Harry are so small where they stand. It's all a bit dreamy. Harry counters it with some youthful cheer. "Sick." He smiles at the wild nature of the ocean, and notices with pursed lips that Liam has his headphones on around his neck. Those big, ugly Dr. Dre Beats ones. Cordless, and matte black with black diamonds on the logo. _He’d better not ignore me_ , he thinks.

"Do you think there's a storm?"

"No. I mean, yeah but... they said it was coming in about a week." And Harry motions to the horizon with an outstretched hand. "This is like, pre-storm."

"But we're not getting in the water, are we?" And he tailors his question a bit, with somewhat wide eyes as he turns to Harry. " _You're_ not getting in?"

"No."

"We'd die."

"Yeah."

"This is great Instagram content. Although it doesn’t fit with my like, aesthetic. You gonna take pictures?"

This time Harry shakes his head with some bit of disappointment. "Besides, everyone would know we were here."

Liam frowns with a huff of disbelief. "Yeah."

And they leave it at that, basking for a moment in what feels like the first welcome to their outing. A day at a cold England bay for the sake of solitude and a taste of something new. Maybe they'll love it, maybe they won't. But any low-budget experience is better than a public pricey one. So Harry's expectations are high. After all, it was his idea.

"Shouldn't have brought my hat," Liam murmurs as he pulls down on his cap to make a tighter fit around his head.

"Shouldn’t have brought your headphones, either."

"Why?"

"Then we can’t talk."

Liam chortles. "Like we’re gonna be talking every single second we’re here." Waving his finger around, he proclaims, "I know you, Styles, you’re chatty one minute and a mute the n— _Oh!_ "

Harry turns his head to see that Liam’s given a hop back to retrieve his hat, which had gone flying away with the hard blow of the wind. He succeeds in catching it mid-air, just before it flies over the rails. Harry laughs, watching Liam slap down the hat onto his head. "Nice."

Liam grabs his headphones and pulls them up to place around his ears. The headband pressing down snug at the top of his head holds down the hat securely, which he proudly points out to Harry.

"You look like an alien from the Fifth Element. That thing is so ugly."

"No it’s not!"

"You look like those people that help airplanes land at night. Are you just gonna keep them on all day?"

Liam shrugs.

"It’s not like you’ve got a three foot wide witch hat atop your head. How hard is it to watch that a cap doesn’t fly away?"

"About as easy making sure you don’t _die_ in the ocean," he chuckles with the quiet delivery of sarcasm that's a little too dry for Harry's taste. He doesn't like it. He steps away from the railings and pockets his hands in his coat before making his way down the second flight of stairs.

"You know death is like having to shit, you know?" Liam comments behind him as he follows. And it doesn't come with a chuckle. Like he really means something serious when he says, "When you gotta go you gotta go. You can't stop it."

 _Why say that?_ Harry finds himself walking faster down the stairs with the furrow of his brow.

"There's no stopping death when it's time."

The wood knocks in echoes as Harry races down and away.

"Harry! Don't run you're gonna kill yourself!"

Sharing solitude is tricky. Things can only rotate in absolute harmony if they mirror each other in size. It's not that Harry wants to escape solitude— he can take a trip to Calabasas to do that. Harry wants to make something nicer out of isolation. But you have to find someone as lonely and emotionally exhausted as you are if you're to really share a comforting bond in a miserable hole, while simultaneously preserving that affliction if only for the record, as an exercise in humanity. Only then can you share weight and lighten the load like cream fading into coffee. Otherwise, you're two people navigating at different wavelengths honing a nasty cabin fever. Or, in some cases, you're dealing with things to do with saving lives. And that's worse. That's something Harry's avoided so much his breaks need to be replaced.

It's a good question, then, why Harry has just hit the gas pedal into a bad decision. And why it is, exactly, that Liam is a variable in that equation. There's been a conjunction. What he's doing is a deviance in his usual agenda. A breach in the code he formed for his best interest. A swerve _way_ beyond the limits of his lane. They're alone, together, and Liam doesn't mirror Harry at all. If anything, he outweighs him. Harry isn't fit for the business he's secretly tending to—right now marks his first moment of self-awareness. He wonders how many more times that wave will come and how many more times he will ignore it. Harry looks over his shoulder to glance at Liam, as if to acknowledge him in that critical light for the first time. He waits for Liam to notice him and smile, but he never does. He turns back around. "Hm." _What am I doing?_ He can't answer that. Not a matter of ignorance as much as it is a thing to do with prohibition. _Do **not** think about it, because I **forbid** you._

Walking into a house and seeing a dripping patch on the ceiling and a smelly puddle on the carpet. When did that happen? No one's done anything about it yet. No one can tell him what's wrong. But it's not his house. It's none of his business. But when it's pap pictures, it's hard for Harry to believe that. He really should stop lurking the boys' update accounts on Twitter. Internal conflict.

_'Mind your business.'_

_' **No.** '_

 

***

 

"England beaches smell like chowder."

"This one doesn't. I mean, I checked before. Like, I visited before uh... texting you. It's nice. I mean, fancy that, right?" Harry turns around when he doesn't get a reply, still walking. "Are you listening to me?" He frowns. "Who are you texting? Liam."

He’s got his headphones on. Professional grade noise cancelation. As expected, it keeps him from paying attention to Harry. Liam taps away at his phone and walks past him without interest spared. And Harry is annoyed he ignored him so he stands in place, digging his boots into the rocky sand under him. He adjusts his messenger bag's strap for fidgeting's sake and gives a good frown as Liam continues to shrink into the distance. And Harry thinks this could be a dramatic indie film shot; Liam walking towards the cold beach as a giant cliff drapes the frame to his right. A dawn’s palette, the hiss of an autumn's England ocean crashing at the shore. Words unspoken like there's a life-changing decision to be made. Liam's still messing with his phone. He hasn't noticed Harry is gone yet. And for a moment Harry considers getting his feelings hurt. Like a child breaking his favorite toy in martyr's spite. He doesn't know why he's suddenly so ready to be upset.

"Oi!"

The balance is restored before things need to get to that. Liam has turned around to take off his headphones and gesture his confusion at Harry's fifty-foot-behind distance. Harry puts his hands in his coat pockets with no answer. And slowly Liam's silhouette begins to grow as he comes back to fetch the Harry he left behind.

"Took you long enough. Forgot all about me," Harry mumbles once Liam has returned panting from his short jog. His headphones hang from his neck.

"Thought you had to fart or something."

"I’m not that kind of guy."

"You don’t fart?" Liam chortles. "Mr. Legume?"

Harry frowns. "I don—" Tries to hit him but the motion halts awkwardly when he realizes his hands are stuck in his pockets. Would’ve been a good blow—Harry’s catching up on his boxing. And while he wiggles his arms to try and yank his limbs free, Liam swings his arm around Harry's shoulder to laugh,

"Should've known you just wanted attention." And he brings him in for a tight cuddle as they go back walking on their way.

 _Did I?_ Harry feels a little confused, his face still red. Like he can't remember his own thinking. "You have to stay close to me."

"Is that right?"

"You might get lost and then... what if I can't find you?"

Liam snorts, looking around at the geography. "Where am I gonna go? Fall into a puddle?"

Or get yanked away by the currents. "It's just us out here. We need to have communication." And Harry turns his face into Liam's sweater to give a muffled mumble. "Don't ignore me."

"Wow." Liam just shakes his head at the high grade of Harry's demanding nature. But his friend sounds genuinely worried, so he abides with a chuckle. "Yeah, alright." No further words exchanged. The duo go on walking.

The walk from the stairs to the shore is another long distance they have to conquer. The sand under them is dark grey with shells and rocks mingled in a mix so dense it crunches under their shoes. Rock formations are peppered on the sand, growing taller along the shore in boulders until finally merging with the cliff that encircles them in a tall wall. When the tide is high they all disappear under water. The waves are even bigger now that Liam and Harry see them up so close. As they walk, Liam keeps turning his neck to look behind them and awe at the height of the distancing cliffs. Harry is in for a surprise once he actually moves his face away from Liam's sweater.

"Styles, what do you make of this spot?"

"Mm?"

Liam rocks his shoulder back and forth to shoo Harry away. Harry pulls back with the rub of his eyes.

"Do you like it here or shall we pick another area?"

Eyes now open, Harry gives a good look at the setting around them. And he gasps, as expected. Surprised and eager to marvel. "Oh this is _nice_!" Just a few yards away from the ocean shore, but exceptionally far from the stairs.  And as he'd hoped, there isn't a soul in sight. In this season, at this hour, in this place— it's absolutely desolate. The rustling waves give a relaxing ambience. Grungy and beautiful, and private in a fashion particularly new to them. "Do you like it, Liam?"

"Yeah!" He smiles, hands on his hips as he turns in circles to look over every direction. "I like it a lot. It's cool."

"I like this spot."

"Alright well..." And Liam turns his head down to reach into his duffel bag, asking, "Where shall I put the blanket?" as he unzips it open. It's a nice bag, Harry acknowledges. He notices the logo on the side. Puma. Adidas has been knocked off the top of the sports apparel hierarchy and into generic brand. Nike is making a comeback, but Puma is reigning supreme among the wealthy and oh-so trendy. Liam would be aware of that. Harry's been endorsing the, of course, _classic_ and _old-school_ Nike brand. Just sweatpants and hoodies for a good workout, in his case. No such sporty couture.

"Oh you brought a blanket?"

"Yeah, brought a few actually."

"Good thinking." Harry is intrigued as he watches Liam dig through whatever contents he has in that overstuffed duffel bag.

From inside, he pulls out a big ball of bunched up fabric. "Here." And he throws what Harry guesses is a bedsheet in that quick second he watches it fly through the air and into his hand. He examines it and realizes he was right. A dark blue cotton duvet. Possibly king sized.

"Who's are these, your parents'?"

"No! That'd be weird."

With the two outer corners pinched in his fingers Harry launches the sheet out into the air until its length fans out evenly in front of him. King sized, definitely. And carefully, Harry maneuvers the blanket into a perfect landing as it floats to the ground. The wind helps, keeping wrinkles to a minimum until it finally reaches the rocky sand below in a neat square.

"Well done, Styles," Liam cheers.

"Give me your bag."

No questions asked, he pulls the strap from his duffel off his shoulder and hands it over to Harry.

"So I can keep the corners down."

"Ah."

Harry places Liam's bag on the top right corner of the duvet. Afterwards he unhooks his own messenger bag off his shoulder and drops it on the top left corner of the dark blue duvet. Next, his shoes. And those go down at the bottom left corner

"Liam give me your shoes."

"Okay."

His go on the bottom right.

"See, now the blanket won't fly away," Harry tells him proudly as he crouches down to lie on the soft duvet. On his back he stretches his arms and legs out to make a dry snow angel on the sheet. Rubbing his palms over it he can feel how wonderfully soft it is. And even better, "This smells like lavender laundry detergent."

"I used a fabric softener."

"For me?" Harry grins with the turn of his head, watching Liam sit down beside him on the blanket.

And Liam just smiles with a shrug. "Yeah." He watches Harry close his eyes, settle his hands behind his head, and give a peaceful sigh. Liam's eyes are soft with a quiet focus, a quiet care. A thought pops in and it delights him, making him smile a bit wider as he says, "I almost forgot..." He crawls away to reach over into his duffel bag. "I actually bought these for you before I left LA."

Harry's eyes pop open. "You bought me something?" And he sits up to look back over his hunched shoulder at Liam.

"Yeah."

"How thoughtful!" Harry just loves gifts, especially those with no occasion. He drops his weight back until he's propped on his elbows, and with the turn of his head he's looking directly ahead at Liam's bag. "What is it? Is it soap? I do love soap. And sweets. Not together, of course." His eyes are brightly sized, his eyebrows perched just a little higher from Liam's delay.

"I got you blankets."

"Ooo." Harry's craning his neck to see if he can get a good look. "From where?"

"Macy's."

"Macy's? Aw! I wish I could go."

"They’re called Vellux blankets. They’re supposed to get softer every time you wash them." Suddenly Liam throws three blanket bundles on Harry's lap. "Go wild."

Harry gasps and struggles to lift himself. He grunts, awkwardly pushing his weight off the ground until he's sitting up again. And in his arms he collects his gifts. Three velvetty nylon blankets in lilac, baby blue and navy blue. He eagerly pulls them all free from their cardboard encasings and bites away the plastic ties that kept the sheets together. And over the fabric he rubs his hands with a grin. "Oooh they're so soft."

Liam looks proud. "That's $300 in blankets."

"No way!"

"American money. So that's... I don't know how many pounds." £245.29

 Immediately Harry unfolds them one by one, throwing each blanket over himself in whichever spot they land. One of which is over his face. And once each blanket has covered his body he promptly drops back with an, "Aaa _aahhhh_..." and lies back on the ground writhing. So warm.

"What do you say?"

A muffled, "Thank you." Suddenly he feels the fabric being tucked under his body bit by bit. His arms, his legs, his feet. Until he's swaddled like a baby— or a burrito or a mummy, depending on how much you care to romanticize it— and Liam is pulling down the sheet that covers up his face.

"Hello," he greets him. That golden puppy dog face staring back. Thick stubble on his skin because he’s too hairy to ever keep a clean shave for more than a day. His hair is probably a mess under his snapback. Harry wants to yank it away just for not matching with anything he’s wearing.

"You do the stupidest shit to me."

 "Tell me... you do not enjoy this."

And Harry squints his eyes, wiggling to test his immobility. "I feel like you only do it to make fun of me. Cos you wanna have a laugh."

But Liam frowns genuinely. "Why would you think that's what I wanna do?" And his tone is serious.

Too serious. Harry turns his head to face Liam, confused. And he's met with a surprisingly stoic expression. Under it, his face turns red. "Sorry," he blurts quickly. He didn't mean to offend him. He didn't think it was possible.

"I'm not even laughing."

"Okay." He keeps his voice quiet, choosing to look up at the sky as he deflects the sudden bittering of Liam's mood. Like an earthquake he needs to deal with under a table as it passes through. He feels guilty and annoyed.

"Excuse me for trying to be nice."

Eyes narrowed. Resigned. "Alright..."

But that doesn't stop Liam, like boiling water spilling over. "Why don't I just not do anything then?" Harry can hear him shift away from his side until he can't feel the heat of his body anymore. And from wherever he now is he goes on monologuing his frustration. And he's overreacting. "As if all I'm ever trying to do is make fun of you and be a dick like always." Too much. "Fuck it. Nevermind."

Harry stays silent and still, wrapped in a nylon burrito and waiting to see if Liam goes on complaining. _Have you quite finished? You prick_ , he would say if he let himself be rude. But they just got here and he wants to keep peace. "Would you just... relax, mate? Let's enjoy ourselves." There's no reply. So Harry reckons that must be good. The sky is grey, he notices, and wonders if the storm could possibly come early and ruin their day. If it isn't ruined already. He wishes he could break free from the blanket cocoon Liam's wrapped him in but he doesn't want to offend him. Further. He sighs, nothing said for another while. And then he turns his head to the right. Liam is sitting cross-legged and hunched, looking bitter yet void as he scrolls down the screen of his phone. "What are you doing?" Harry asks.

And in monotone hostility he mumbles, "Googling my name to see what shit everyone's saying about me. What else would I be doing?"

Harry's eyes narrow in aggravation, turning his head back to face the sky, blinking away every comeback he discards for being too dry. _Why is he being so annoying?_ Like he's throwing a tantrum. Harry doesn't know what to say. "... You shouldn't do that."

"Thank you. I definitely won't do it now. Perfect solution. Shall I give you a gold star?"

And wide-eyed, Harry tightens his jaw and mouths through gritted teeth, "Oh my God." Brow furrowed and bottom lip pinched hard under his front teeth, he pushes the blankets off himself and sits up. Frowning, he looks at the waves and contemplates on how much he cares to be the peacekeeper, and how much he cares to be petty. The weight of each; the ability to wipe his emotions away and make amends, and the urge to put on his shoes and go storming back towards the stairs just so Liam can run after him and apologize.

"Hey."

Harry turns his head to where he feels a poke in his arm, and he looks up to see Liam's pulling back his hand to drop down on his lap. Quiet and composed. He looks at Harry until their eyes meet for a moment of contact, before he looks away again. Head turned to the duvet under him he says,

"Look, I'm sorry."

Harry squints and sighs, turning away again. _Okay?_ he thinks. _That was unnecessary._ The water is so active, almost like it's trying to tell him something. But focusing on it eases his mind, and listening to the rustle of the ocean on the sand he finds his rancor clearing away.

"I'm such a fucking dick."

 _Yeah. You are. You're rude and annoying and acting like a bitch._ Harry turns to Liam. "It's alright."

"No, I'm fucking annoying. I’m a twat. I don't know what's wrong with me."

'I don't know what's _wrong_ with me'— Harry doesn't like hearing that at all. Something like a seagull caws in the distance. And Harry feels his perspective change along with the tempo of his heart. _What's wrong?_ he thinks, wishing something good would come out of asking. _Why would something be wrong with you?_ Except he's been asking himself that question for a while. "Nothing's wrong with you."

Liam fidgets with the loose string on the tip of his socks, frowning and shaking his head like he's reading thoughts scattering through his head. And Harry wants to know what they are. Why there's something about this he isn't getting. Why there would be. "I just went off on you and I don't know why. Whatever. Sorry." And he puts his headphones back on from around his neck.

"Mate, look, don't worry about it." Harry's quiet but desperate. Like he's blasting water on a flame and trying to kill it. He feels bad for getting annoyed. Feels selfish. Responsible. He knows better. He texted him, planned out this whole trip— he _knows_ better. This isn't surprising.

_'Should've minded your business. Just take him home. You're not helping.'_

_'No. I can help.'_

"Liam." Can’t hear him with the headphones. "Ugh." Harry gets up, crawling over so he can pull on one of the speakers and free Liam’s ear.

Liam turns his head to face him, a bit confused. But focused. And that's what Harry wants. "What?"

"You know, I heard uh... this beach?"

"What?"

"It has uh... like, creatures."

Liam seems to realize what Harry's trying to do. There's an annoyance Harry catches onto like a lightning flash. Liam smothers whatever thunder were to usually come. Then his expression softens with a sigh, and as he pulls down his headphones to hang from his neck he's asking, "...Creatures?" as he turns his head to Harry.

"Yeah!" Harry smiles at him before reaching over for his messenger bag behind him to rummage through his contents. Food, a water bottle, prescription medicine, a book he hopes he's enough of an intellectual to actually read instead of using as paperweight when he isn't leaving it around for show, hand sanitizer, his wallet, a mini umbrella, used napkins from three months ago... His hand is shaking and he doesn't know why. He's looking for his phone. "In the rockpools. There's uh... little snails and crabs and stuff. Or maybe other things!" Found his phone. Pockets that in his coat and reaches for his boots. To replace it, Harry places War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy on the corner of the duvet to keep it down. "Let's go look for some, yeah?"

Liam looks downcast and weary. Blinking around with eyes unfocused like he's trying to get rid of a thought, scratching the back of his neck. Embarrassed, under an umbrella of other afflictions he's too much of an amateur to know how to cope with. He reaches back for his duffel bag and looks inside.

"Come on, Liam!" Harry's enthusiasm sounds more forced than he realizes. Probably why Liam sighs as he reaches for his shoes. His lagging pace only makes Harry more jittery, tapping his shoes on the sand as he waits for Liam to ready himself for a sub-adventure within their headline trip. Get his mind off things. A hard reset. "Bring your phone. So you can take pictures."

Liam taps the hard rectangle in his front pocket so Harry can see. And Harry watches him take out a pack of cigarettes. And a lighter.

"Thought you... um..." He recognizes his tone is dismal so he licks his lips and blinks back to his buoyant disposition. "Thought you quit smoking?"

Liam snorts as he gets up on his feet, giving Harry a cynical and tired smile. Like he's stupid to have believed that. Harry puts all his effort into keeping his face in a lighthearted default. Liam walks towards him, and Harry can't help but notice his socks.

"You're not gonna put on your shoes? It's cold."

"I'm fine," Liam mumbles before placing his cigarette between his lips, igniting his lighter before drawing the flame to the tip of the stick. Harry looks elsewhere to rub his face, frowning when the smell of burning nicotine hits him, and then quickly wiping that away before Liam notices.

"You ready?" Cheery, merry.

Liam nods with a freshly baked batch of feign, smiling as he joins Harry's side to walk along the shore.

_'You broke it.'_

_'No. He's fine.'_

 

***

_Do you think he's depressed?_

_No idk I don't think so_

_Has he told you anything?_

_No_

_I mean everyone's got shit going on in_  
their personal lives I don't know that  
it's that serious with him

_I mean he seems off but alright if that  
makes sense_

_The pictures justw eird me out._

_weird me out*_

_Yeah it is quite_

_Troubling I'll give ya that_

_Maybe you ought to talk to him_

_He's coming to London in a few days_

_Is he?_

_Yeah_

_Take him with you next time you fuck  
off and disappear lol_

_Because I'm sort of busy but I wish I could  
tbh I would but like_

_If yout hink somethings wrong then  
maybe you can help_

_Because if it were me I'd just take him_  
to the pub or something but he's never  
really in his right mind when he's drunk

_Like not even I'm good at dealing with  
me own shit_

_So maybe me and the lads aren't the best  
company if we're to be honest_

_Lol._

_Reckon he'll be better of with you_

_Take him away some place nice yeah ?_

_Yeah._

_Like isolated. He never goes out to places  
like that you know like on his own_

_He hasn't been going out much?_

_Wouldn't be able to tell you tbh_

_Alright._

_Want me to tell him to give you a ring ?_

_You changed numbers again ?_

_Yeah, actually._

_Shall I write down this number for him ?  
Actually not even I have this number_

_Stop changing numbers_

_People keep finding my number  
and sending me messages._

_Call the coppers on them !_

_Are you being sarcastic..._

_Fucking obviously, Harold_

_Anyway let me give you Liam's number_

_Oh no wait you said to call him_

_Yeah call him, give him this number,  
and then have him text me._

_DON'T text him my number._

_Don't write it._

_Fuck alright !_

_Tell him I said hi when you see him_

_Twist his tit and then say_

_With love, from Louis_

_Like all posh_

_Absolutely not._

 

Harry reaches the bottom of the conversation to where Louis left him hanging. An ironic reversal of roles, since Louis is always the one nagging at him for failing to text back. He scrolls back up to the beginning of their text conversation. Toadstool— Louis’s contact list codename in case Harry ever loses his phone. Usually he'll delete conversations where any of them mention names. This one he keeps for now.

"Harry, look."

Harry quickly locks his phone and hides it in his pocket when he hears Liam speak behind him. By his tone it must not be anything important he means for Harry to see. Harry gives a quick spin to turn around. "Wha—Oh _f-fuck!!_ " Liam cackles as Harry jolts away in horror some three feet away. His face twists tightly in disgust, his shoulders coming up while he keeps his hands recoiled against his chest. Glaring wide-eyed at what Liam holds in his hand. "Is that a fucking _crab_?!"

"You should see your face!" Liam is red-faced in his laughing fit, casually holding the live arthropod by its shell as if it were a cookie.

Harry isn’t amused, still recovering from the distress of having the creature held up inches from his face. "It could’ve clawed my fucking eye out!"

"Oo _o_ oo _oo~_ " Liam makes ghost sounds while holding out the crab towards Harry.

"Stop!" he whines in his getaway, hopping back another foot.

"I found it," Liam giggles.

"You’ve not picked a fucking daisy, put that thing back!"

"It’s a crab," he giggles again, watching the crusty organism slowly clamp down its claws at nothing.

Harry smacks his hands down on his thighs, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed as he hisses, "I know it’s a bloody _crab_."

"Carcinus maenas."

"Amazing."

"Bet you don’t know what kind. I mean I just said it but…"

"The kind that employs sponges to cook hamburgers."

"Actually no!" Liam smiles, gently tipping the crab side to side so it gives a dance.

And Harry doesn’t understand how it hasn’t bitten him yet. Is Liam some sort of expert crab handler? He frowns, and says in a new tone of worry, "It’s gonna bite you."

Liam snorts. "Crabs don’t bite."

Harry fumes.

"Anyway he’s not gonna do anything." Liam turns his head down to the crab. "You’re not gonna pinch me, are you mate?" And in a high-pitched voice he answers, "No, Liam! You’re so kind and handsome! You’re the only human I’ve ever not pinched!" And he gives a delighted gasp, in his own voice proclaiming, "Oh I’m flattered! Did you hear that, Harry?" Not a very good joke.

"Maybe it’s a tame crab. Because there’s been so many people around. Like those pigeons at the park that perch themselves on your arm."

Liam doesn’t comment on it, and instead turns around back towards the rockpools by the ocean. "Better put him back. Come on, Harry."

They’ve been observing the sea creatures living along the coastline rockpools for at least an hour. Squatting down, balancing over rocks while being as mindful as they possibly can of the waves. When the tide comes down, it usually leaves behind saltwater inside the holes and trenches in the rocks. But today the tide isn’t low enough for any such _usual_ display of marine inhabitants. Liam and Harry had to travel some 300 yards to the very end of the bay alongside the tail of the cliff to find a single rockpool. (Though not without returning for Liam’s sneakers first.) Luckily for them, it’s a heavily populated one. Most likely due to its close proximity to the ocean.

Even more luckily, Liam has paid many a visit to rockpools as a child during family, school, and boy scouts trips—so he’s more than familiar with the living creatures lurking inside, and has happily served as a walking encyclopedia for every fish, mollusk, worm and snail lurking inside. Liam also knows about the plants but Harry isn’t too interested in that so he skips the algae fun facts. Regardless, Harry is being surprisingly chatty. Liam didn’t know he was so interested in marine life, although he could have guessed from all the nautical tattoos. Harry, however, has a different agenda at work. He’s just trying to keep Liam’s mind preoccupied as much as he can. Asking questions he doesn’t really care to know the answer to. But the exercise isn’t anything he finds particularly burdensome. He’s happy to hear Liam talk, engaged and in good spirits. Even if it’s to hear him go on about the anatomy of the barnacle for fifteen minutes.

"What’s that?" Harry points to a little yellow-ish fish burrowed in the sand. He’s crouched down on the same rock they’ve been perching on to look into the rockpool. Fairly high, slippery from the seaweed laying around.

"That is the lesser weever."

"Aw why is it lesser?"

"Because there's a bigger one, the greater weever."

"Oh he sounds rude. Size isn't everything. I say he's the lesser weever and this one's the greater weever."

"Did you know they sting? All weevers do. They bury themselves in the sand and feed on uh... like, shrimp and little fish."

Harry nods, looking into the rockpool. An anemone catches his eye. Although knowing what it is, he prompts Liam to test his knowledge, "What’s that?" He points again.

Liam cranes his neck to take a better look. "Oh that's an open beadlet anemone. Like where Nemo lived."

"Yeah."

"That over there is rockweed."

"I know what seaweed is, Liam."

"There’s different kinds of saltwater plants," he suddenly says defensively, narrowing his eyes with a small pout. He reaches behind him and shows Harry a mane of seaweed he’d pulled out earlier, hanging off his hand like a wig. Harry notices and frowns in disgust, flinching his arms back.

"Ew don’t touch that!"

" _Ew don’t touch that~! I’m such a prissy posh pussy~!_ " Liam mocks. "This is wireweed."

"That’s nice put it back."

"You could wear this as a wig since you’ve got no hair."

"It’s stinky. Like, salty stinky."

"There’s one called landlady’s wig but I don’t think there’s any here."

Harry cocks his brow. "I’m afraid to ask what landlady’s wig looks like."

Liam gives a moment to think, his boyish features coming for an innocent ponder. "Pubic hair," he says. "Like a bush. Or if you brushed like a really hairy brown dog and put all the shedding in a ball. Except more wiry. Because it’s algae."

And Harry laughs, partially by the description and partially in awe at Liam’s knowledge of rockpool life. Not even general marine animals, since he clarified himself he knows nothing about open water fish. Liam really just has spent a lot of time particularly observing rockpools. He doesn’t know how he didn’t make mention of it to Harry before. That could bother him if he let it, but instead he just basks in a portion of pride for planning a trip that perfectly suits them both, but especially Liam.

"You having fun?" he asks him a bit quietly, feeling like a parent desperate to make their child happy.

Liam finds the question a bit funny, so he laughs and nods. "Yeah, it’s cool. I wish I’d brought a bucket. I could’ve taken a better look. There’s some good shit in there." And suddenly he looks out into the ocean horizon. Harry joins him with the turn of his head. Being behind Liam, he can behold him privately without Liam having a clue. No clue he’s looking, no clue what he’s thinking. Harry thinks,

"Hope you’re okay."

"What?"

"What?" He realizes his concern took a wrong turn, and accidentally manifested as dialogue instead of a thought. Looking at Liam he shrugs with a chuckle, his cheeks a bit red. Liam doesn’t really laugh back, but does seem to give a bitty smile. And then he turns back to look at the water. "Shit," Harry mouths with a furrowed brow. He crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits, the polyester of his parka rustling as he shrinks himself in disenchantment.

"It’s pretty crazy out there, you know. Now that I’m looking at it up so close." He turns to Harry. "The ocean."

"Yeah."

"You could really easily die out here."

 _Oh no_ , he thinks. "You’re right! Yeah. We should head back." Harry tries to turn around and away, balancing over the rocks to try and return to shore the same way he crawled to head out. "Let’s head back."

"You could just jump and just… slip and crack your head open," Liam goes on as Harry crawls away. Harry tries to mind his footing on the rocks, now anxious and distracted. He has to crouch down. He hates that Liam doesn’t shut up, won’t even speak louder for Harry to hear like he doesn’t care. "Or break your neck, or anything, really."

"Yeah it’s really dangerous! It’s _so_ dangerous, Liam! Liam?!" He turns his head to look back. "Liam, come on!"

Liam stands up, to his relief. But he doesn’t even hold out his hands to balance himself as he hops from rock to rock.

Harry stutters, frozen in place as he waits for him. "You could get hurt a-and that would be bad! Yeah?! I mean it—it’s—that’s… that’s terrible." Now that he’s face-to-face with Liam, he warns him a bit passionately. "You could hurt yourself."

"Tends to happen when you die," he chortles as he looks down at his crouching friend. "I mean, not that it matters then because, you know, you’re dead and all that." Hands on his hips. "Nothing really matters then. Not any of your troubles."

And they’re silent, Harry breathing hard through his nose as he fails to break eye contact with Liam. Liam would’ve shied away by now but he doesn’t this time. Something meaningful should be said. Harry should be honest about his concern, and make a point of some kind. But he isn’t thinking. He’s just living through his distress on mute. It’s unfortunate that he forgets to really turn off that viscous vibe when he says, "I’m hungry." Like the spot was reserved for something important before it disappeared at last moment.

"Yeah, me too."

Liam is better at lying than Harry is. And that scares him.

 

***

 

"I wonder if any of the sheep have ever gotten lost down here."

Harry looks up at the cliffs, analyzing their structure. "Well they either walked down the stairs, in which case they'd be smart enough to get back up. Or they fell. In which case they'd be dead. So that is," and he pokes Liam in the arm, " _not_ a clever thought and you'll have to do better than that."

Liam laughs as he grabs hold of Harry's shoulder to eagerly argue his defense, "But there's those sheep that climb the side of mountains to lick salt! The mineral!"

Harry points at the cliff. "Wrong mineral. That's limestone. And they're not sheep, they're goats. Mountain goats. Completely different species."

"Well they must be cousins."

"Did you know manatees are closely related to elephants?"

"I saw a manatee in Puerto Rico! I was there once." In 2014, sometime during one of their breaks from tour. "They're so cute. Have you seen one?"

"I mean in pictures." Sea cows. Exceptionally fat and large ocean mammals with the body of potato wrapped in leather and the face of a bullmastiff with no nose. Terribly gentle and innocent creatures. Always getting caught up in boat propellers.

"I'll take you to see one in real life," Liam tells him, looking at the sand as he walks alongside Harry through the coastline. "They've got lots in Puerto Rico. It's like Hawaii except everyone speaks Spanish. And there's no volcanos. Harry, did you know Puerto Rico is where they invented piña coladas?"

"No."

"I didn't know, either. Can you believe I didn't _actually_ have one when I was there?"

"That's a shame."

"Well you have to come with me next time. We'll have lots of fun and go partying and dancing and all that," Liam gushes.

And Harry's happy. Liam has emigrated from his darker state of mind and into juvenile excitement again. Temporary or permanent doesn't matter because Harry's pretending he has no concept of time. A rare phenomenon for him. It should be lunch time soon, but only because Harry is hungry. He doesn't want to ask for the time and spoil their jolly fun, or interrupt Liam as he goes on talking about how he got drunk in San Juan. It’s funny because Liam’s incapacity to shut up usually annoys Harry, but he’s gotten good at making exceptions today. He's a bit cautious with his comments. Everything he says he drafts three times over in his head before saying it. Like he’s tip-toeing around a minefield, and that’s an unfortunate comparison to draw. Regardless, it’s routine that's serving them both well. Harry has just explored a marvelously isolated beach for ocean creatures with one of his very best friends, and they’re now walking all the way back to their spot along the shore to have some lunch-- and that's all he's thinking about. Not his agent, not music, not meetings. He’s really forgotten about all that. All there is is sea breeze, sand, the ocean and the cliffs. And Liam. And that’s the best part.

"You know, I think we’d manage quite well if we were to be stranded on an island, you and I," Harry tells Liam. "You know, we get on really well."

"Well that’s no surprise. We’ve been… stuck with each other for like, what… five years?" In the group. "It’s not like that’s new information."

"Yeah but just you and me. On an island, not on a tour bus or a hotel. You know?"

Liam understands the difference. "Yeah."

"Would you agree?"

"I would," he smiles.

And Harry smiles back, his cold-flushed cheeks dimpling. He really does feel so happy with Liam. He didn’t realize how damp his own mood was until experiencing the high of their present moment. And maybe they do mirror each other, after all. Maybe Harry just doesn’t know himself as well as he thinks he does—which isn’t very much at all. So this shouldn’t come as a surprise. It only furthers his admiration for Liam—that they can both be so similar, and what differences they share are more like pieces _designed_ to fit together. Everything just makes sense. Easy. Like smoothing a wrinkle or a dent on something he forgot can be perfect. That’s what being with Liam is like.

"You know, I saw this movie…" he starts. Turning his head over to Liam, who nods with a,

"Yeah?" to acknowledge his remark.

"The Light Between Oceans."

And Liam stays quiet, thinking. "Oh that’s the one with the bloke— he plays Magneto, yeah? In X-Men. The new one."

"Yeah and the girl from Ex Machina. She was a robot."

"Yeah."

Harry nods and looks back at the sand, narrating as he walks, "Alright well I saw that movie like… I don’t know if it was two or three months ago. This was in America. I snuck into the movie theater at like, the very minute it opened. And even though it wasn’t the first showing I just stayed there creeping around in the shadows. Completely empty."

"Nice."

"Right. So… I watched this movie!"

"Yeah."

"And it was about uh… it’s about this guy who takes up a job working at a lighthouse," Harry starts. "And to work there he needs to be on an island and it’s completely like… it’s just one house and he has to stay there all by himself. He can only get to town in a few months when a boat comes over to bring him back, or something like that. And his job is to uh… He reports in a log book all the stuff that happens out in sea. That he sees! And… yeah he sits in the lighthouse—"

"Does he live in the lighthouse?"

"No he lives in a house _by_ the lighthouse."

"Oh."

"Sorry, I’ll get to the point." And Harry chuckles. "Right. So, the point is... uh… yeah he lives in the house, works at the lighthouse and… right, then he meets this girl… yeah? So he meets this girl and she fancies him a lot, and…. _immediately_ after meeting… she asks him to marry her. And then they sort of start liking each other after that happens."

"Which is stupid."

"Yeah but the thing is it worked out alright for them! So anyway, they got married, and they moved to the lighthouse together." And Harry remembers an important piece of information from the movie, so Harry tells Liam, "Because only the light keeper’s wife can live on the island! That’s why they got married in the first place. So it was stupid but it had a purpose, actually."

Liam snorts and widens his eyes. " _And?_ "

" _And_ they lived together there all by themselves! And it worked out lovely for them. They were very happy." But then he remembers, "Actually, no, it didn’t work out lovely for them. Yeah, the movie was really fucking sad. It was a real tragedy."

And Liam is confused, brow furrowed as he tries to understand what Harry even means to say by telling him the plot of the movie. "What the fuck are you trying to say?"

And Harry worries he’s offended him again, so he quickly stutters, "No nono, I forgot the part about the movie being sad. Forget I said that! Because they were fine together but then like, this dead body washed up."

"A dead _body_?!"

Harry hits him so he pays attention again, "My _point_ **_was_** … that they were very happy together and they got along really well. They _instantly_ clicked. Like, the last light keeper and his wife went crazy and they died. Because of, you know, cabin fever? But that didn’t happen to the couple! Their lives got fucked because of something else. But I meant to say that you and me, like, right now? Is like that. When everything was good."

Liam nods. He had to navigate a bit but he manages to understand Harry. And he chuckles. "So you and me are a married couple?"

Harry giggles. "When you put it like tha _aaaat_ … it sounds weird." He gives Liam a playful shrug. " _But_ … I meant to say… we work together! I mean, yeah we do actually literally _work_ together but we also just… you and me, we’re good together."

Harry can never really find the right way to say things. His prose outperforms his speech, which he feels like still works at a slug’s pace both pre and post enunciation. That’s why he likes his statements to display on a different kind of platform. In his clothes, his music, his hair—well, he doesn’t bother with the hair anymore. But Harry tasks himself with making up for what his brain fails to get right. At least in the public eye. Being a celebrity means everyone misunderstands him, sometimes as a career. And though he acknowledges tabloids will twist anyone’s words, he can’t help but nurture an insecurity about it. Lately he just hates talking. He’ll type three words on Twitter before deleting it and closing the app with a sour mood. No captions. No comment. His first interview to mark his image outside of the group was a 2 minute phone call—that’s almost a joke. But he really didn’t have anything to say. Not that he wanted to, anyway. Not to share with the world. Maybe it’s a product of something else. But he’s happy to scroll the web and see that the fans just think he’s either weird or an intellectual, and that’s fine.

"You know what I mean?"

Liam always does. At least he says so. He smiles with no scoff or eye-roll because that’s just how he always is with Harry. _Kind_. "Yeah, mate."

The implication is flattering. And that’s all, Harry thinks. Why they both smile at each other and bump shoulders until they’re locking arms over each other and syncing their steps. The waves clash passionately to their right, the weather getting warmer as they approach midday. It’s such a long way back, they realize. Harry half worries that some tourist has arrived already, or that maybe a burglar has snuck along and stolen their things. Maybe the entire blanket. Liam did say the Vellux blanket was expensive. _Could there be a black market for luxury blankets?_ Harry wonders. He’d hate to lose them. The lilac one is his favorite. Liam is so thoughtful, buying him expensive gifts. Blankets sound like such a marital thing. Next Liam will be buying him expensive jewelry. That thought was meant as a joke, but Harry suddenly believes it to be entirely possible. If not likely, should Harry ever ask.

"I never really buy you gifts, do I?"

"What?"

And Harry tells him again, "Me. I never really buy you gifts." Nuzzling into Liam’s sweater again. He smells like cigarettes. Can’t remember the sweater smelling like that before.

"You got me a snow globe," he assures him.

"I need to buy you more things. I’m sorry. I never buy you anything. I feel like I take you for granted. You know a lot of times I buy people things because I’m afraid they won’t like me. Like, I want them to like me. I don’t want people thinking I’m a snob or an asshole. I don’t mean for it to sound like I’m buying them off or anything. But I do like making people happy, and just making sure I haven’t done anything to upset them." When he puts it that way, it sounds like, "I think, I never worry about that with you. You know, Liam? That’s what I think."

Liam gives Harry a squeeze to bring him closer, and leave a kiss at the top of his head.

They make it to the dark blue duvet some few minutes after that. Everything is intact, and they’re still isolated, to which they both gave a cheer. Once there Harry immediately gets to his main concern as he reaches for his messenger bag. "You have to clean your hands!" he announced. "You touched a crab and seaweed shit. Your hand stinks."

Liam smells his hand before looking at Harry narrow-eyed. But amused nonetheless as he watches him dig through his bag. "I’ll just do it on my sweater," he mumbles, and starts wiping his hand on the gray knitted fabric of his sweater.

And Harry gives a childish, bratty yell. "No, I’m _doing it_!"

"You’re such a bitch."

"Oh and what’s that make you, now?"

"A victim."

Harry laughs, looking over his shoulder to see that Liam is laughing too, proclaiming himself,

"A victim of your relentless crimes and torment. You’re a pest, a menace."

"You’re the one who put a crab in my face," Harry argues as looks around through his things. He has one of the things he needs already, now he just needs to dig around for the other.

"I wonder how he’s doing."

"Who?"

"The crab."

Harry has found what he’s looking for. He crawls back to Liam’s place, sitting down cross-legged in front of him. The worst posture. "Palms." Liam takes the cue to place his hands palm side up, where Harry squirts big globs of hand sanitizer from an 8oz pump and onto the center of each. "Rub it in."

"That’s too much!" Liam is horrified when he rubs his hands together, and the freezing hand sanitizer begins to drip over the duvet.

"I’m gonna wipe it off." And Harry shows Liam the crumpled up paper towel in his hand.

"Oh now that looks used," Liam claims seriously, rubbing his hands up until the smell of crab and seaweed is gone. "You didn't use it to blow your nose, did you?"

"No." Harry unfolds the crunchy paper towel until it’s a big, heavily wrinkled and hard sheet, before bringing in Liam’s wet hands. He rubs the paper up, down and around and proceeds to dry his hands. Liam makes a disgusted face anyway. "Those are the other 50 tissues I've got in my bag."

"That’s disgusting. I’m never touching that bag."

"I'm kidding," he laughs quietly as he dries Liam’s hands. So soft and smooth.

"What are they from?"

And with a sigh, Harry admits for the first time, "I’ve been sweating a lot lately. I don't know why. It’s disgusting."

"Why?"

"I just said I didn't know."

Liam keeps quiet. While Harry’s head down he looks at him with a gentle, if not depressive, sobriety. Oddly loving, though so cold. Things to do with unveiling. "You on meds?"

Harry tries not to stop, so it doesn’t seem like the question bothers him. It’s unexpected and it almost feels like an accusation. Harry doesn’t know why. He frowns and shakes his head. "No."

"That happens with anxiety pills," Liam tells him like he’s trying to be helpful. "My mum was on uh… Cymbalta once. It was a long time ago. She got real sweaty all the time."

"Yeah?"

"Antidepressants make you quite sweaty as well. But I’m sweaty all the time so I don’t know if it’s the pills or just me."

Harry feels a dread come down on his shoulders like a 334bs weight. He doesn’t want to analyze that. He’s going to pretend Liam said something else, and he misheard him, and what he’s thinking is an undercooked conclusion baked in a bad oven. He stays looking down at Liam’s fingers, his eyes carrying a cancelled sentiment that leaves him blinking and struggling to focus. But Liam’s hands—they’re dry. So he’s got nothing to do. "I think you’re good." But that could mean a lot of things.

Liam pulls his hands back, smelling them with a smile. "Oh that worked! Thank you, sunshine."

Sunshine. Harry lets himself smile. Liam rubs his hands all over Harry’s face to make him laugh. A playful gesture, if not one to digress. Harry leaves to go back to his messenger bag and return his hand sanitizer and napkin to their respective spots in the abyss that is his bag. He takes a look at the sandwich, giving it a longing caress. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t eat yet, or at least make a comment on it. Although suddenly he isn’t that hungry. Liam pierces the silence with a topic of his own.

"So what was that thing with the dead body in the movie?"

"Oh. The dead body." Harry gets down on his hands and knees and crawls over to his spot, gathering the Vellux blankets as he passes before draping each one over his body. And then he lies down, curling up on his side in a fetal position facing Liam. And he’s rightfully laughed at, for exaggerating his reaction to the weather. Liam is just fine in his sweater. His snapback is missing but he hasn’t noticed. He lies down on his back to join Harry so they’re eye-to-eye. And once there, Harry starts again, half his mouth hidden under the lilac blanket. "Right, so… regarding the corpse… There was this dinghy that washed up on shore. And when the couple got to it, they found that there was a dead body inside but also a baby."

Liam’s eyebrows jump softly. "A baby?"

"Yeah. And the whole drama is that… obviously the baby isn’t theirs. But they keep it."

Liam turns his head to face the sky. Quiet and unstirred as he breathes. Harry watches his Adam’s apple bob for a swallow.

"I remembered this whole movie because of the waves. You know, where we are. Here. Throughout the whole movie you just heard the waves on the shore. And there were cliffs as well. Although the sand was a lot lighter."

"Mhm." And he doesn’t say anything else. Just brings up one hand behind his head. Harry eyes his profile. How his nose has just the slightest upward curve at the tip. How strong his brow is, just how square and broad his jaw is shaped. They’ve never known what nationality to pin on him. Harry is as English as it gets. Niall looks perfectly Irish. And Louis’s features are agreeably French. Liam is the one everyone is conflicted on. Handsome—that’s where they’re forced to leave it.

Harry tries to get back to talking about the movie. "So anyway, about the movie and the baby," he starts with the scratch of his nose. "The whole thing with that is that the girl, the one played by uh… the one who played the robot—she had two miscarriages. They really wanted a baby. He’d always had a lot of death in his life and her brothers had all died in the war, so she really wanted to be a mum. But she couldn’t. She always lost them. I suppose the whole _theme_ of the movie is parenthood. Like, for a lot of people, to have a child is really the answer. That they think it’ll solve all their problems and that they’ll be happier. And that… like, some people were meant to be parents above all else. I think. Do you think so, Liam?"

"I don’t know."

"Well in the movie they wanted one so badly that they just… lied and said that this baby that washed up on the dinghy with the dead body, that it was theirs. And the baby’s mother was actually living on the mainland, you know. Looking for her missing baby. And this couple took it. So it was their baby… but it was also the other woman’s baby, actually! And God, it was so _sad_! Because like… how can you do something like that? Just take a baby that you know isn’t yours and say it is. That’s not gonna end well at all. Like… that’s a baby. A real baby. And it belongs to someone else. You can’t just say it’s yours like that, without telling the tru—"

"Can we talk about something else, mate?"

"What?" Harry didn’t realize Liam had brought up his hand and placed it over his eyes, pinching at his septum with eyes closed. "What’s wrong?" And he doesn’t know what to make of it. Trying not to move like if he does he’s shattering glass, triggering a biblical collapse. His heart revs its engine. His brow is tense. He’s giving that weird strong stare. Suspenseful. And he’s flipping back the pages of what he said to try and figure out what he said wrong.

"Where are you going? Liam?"

"I have to go check something."

Harry doesn’t let himself push off the three layers of bedsheets in a violent jolt and grab Liam by the arm as he’s putting on his shoes. Instead he gives the most gentle, slow push off the ground until he’s at a sitting position, blankets still around his body, watching Liam put on his shoes in a hurry. And Liam doesn’t answer Harry’s question. And so Harry stutters quietly, "Let m-m—Well let me come w—"

"No, don’t come." Liam’s put on his headphones.

Harry scratches the side of his nose nervously. His heart beating so fast it’s making him nauseous. _Where is Liam going? Why am I so worried?_ He feels ridiculous and it makes him suppress everything. "Why?" he asks, and it sounds so quiet it’s almost a squeak. When Liam is actually walking away, feet on the sand, Harry is blatantly ignoring his own distress call. A flood. Or maybe a fire.

_‘Wait wait wait don’t go!’_

_‘Where are you going?!’_

_‘Liam, wait!’_

None of the above. Just statuesque as he watches Liam with some form of electrifying terror. His green eyes are glassy and his face is looks negated, like he’s suddenly got such heavy eye bags. _Fuck, I’m so scared._ Liam just keeps walking.

Harry just wants him to stay on the sand.

A fear of abandonment that comes with a darker, tighter, more horrible thread than a drive away or a slammed door goodbye. It’s the _form_ of the abandonment he fears. Nothing is forever but when it keeps its promises it’s never for anything good. Harry knows that too well now, suddenly, in an unwelcome and unprecedented back-to-back basis. This year hasn’t been good but it hasn’t been good for anyone, by the looks of it. If Liam has managed to slip into sadness then it must be really bad. Sound the alarm. Harry doesn’t want to. Maybe he’s in denial. Maybe there was something he was trying to prove today but lately he can’t remember what purpose feels like. Suddenly he can’t remember what this was all about. He just loves Liam and is terrified about something bad happening to him and he can’t explain why he thinks he would. He can, but he _can’t_. He _mustn’t_.

"Liam?"

Where did he go?

"Liam!" Harry stands up on the navy blue duvet, looking out into the direction Liam left. He isn’t there. Harry walks forward but he doesn’t want his socks to touch the sand. He doesn’t want things to get to that. _To what?_ he asks himself, knowing damn well the answer. He always does. The wind is hitting Harry’s face and it’s making it hard to keep his eyes open, so at least he doesn’t look as terrified as he feels. Nausea and a pain suddenly sting in his stomach which he finds weird. "Liam!!" What are the implications of it all? What is he afraid of Liam doing? Where is it that he’s afraid he’s gone?

Harry doesn’t put on his shoes when he goes walking onto the sand. _I need them to keep the blanket down at the corners. Don’t want the blanket to fly away_ , he tells himself. Because of course he isn’t panicking, of course he’s calm and thinking clearly. It’s why he isn’t rushing down the shore as he walks on the sand, looking for Liam when he’s absolutely nowhere to be found. There’s so many footprints he can’t make out which is his and which is Liam’s. They all go on straight down. Harry looks out into the ocean but turns his head back. _Of course Liam isn’t there—Why the fuck would he be there? Stop looking there. How far could he have gone?_ He can’t find Liam. He wishes the ocean would shut up because he can’t focus. His hands are trembling and he tells himself it’s the cold so he stuffs them into the pockets of his parka as he walks on idly, as slow as he possibly can. _I’m not panicking. I’m fine._ "Liam!" His voice cracks and he frowns. "Shit." Then comes a deep breath that accidentally triggers hyperventilating and he curses again. "Fuck—Liam!" And that’s the hardest he’s called out for his name. He turns around in a full circle, his eyes lined with red because Liam just isn’t anywhere. He’s just gone. " _Liam!!_ "

This time he voice carries an echo all across the bay. And he thinks, _What if someone heard me? What if someone comes down?_ And he’s angry he cares about that. But what would _happen_ if someone came down? Liam Payne disappears from the bay on a day out with Harry Styles. But that’s not the headline he’s thinking about. Jaw clenched now, so he won’t make another sound as he paces, his feet freezing. But he whimpers, still. Looking out at the beach because he’ll get angry if he looks out into the ocean as if Liam could possibly be in there. _He’s not there. Why would he do that? He wouldn’t do that. He’s fine._

Except Harry finds footprints that turn left and lead into the water.

"What?" He sounds pathetic saying it, his brow tensing and his eyes going wide as he looks out at those angry, big waves crashing against the giant, jagged rocks.

_"You could just jump and just… slip and crack your head open. Or break your neck, or anything, really."_

Harry looks down at the sand again, following the tracks and they go directly into the water. And they don’t come back out. "No." Like there’s been a mistake, like reality just got it wrong. Harry shakes his head like what he’s looking at is a wrong answer, a simple mistake. "No." Just a few more feet and he’s gonna get his boots wet, so he just stands there still, feeling like there’s been a car crash in his body and everything is on fire. Harry doesn’t know what to do. _He didn’t._ Do what? Harry doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels his face freezing.

 "What’d I do?" He just shakes his head, breathing hard and heavy through his stuffed nose. _This isn’t happening. This isn’t fucking happening._ Harry’s just crying. Eyes red, nose red, cheeks red. Doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to process this, like he’s trying to swallow a lump of coal. It’s just not possible. It’s not _possible_. None of this is. He sniffs, wipes his eyes hard. Keeps thinking about how he didn’t stop Liam from walking off, and the last thing he said to him, and all the things he didn’t get to tell—

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Harry didn’t expect to feel worse when he turned around.

"Are you crying?" Liam asks. There he is. Dry, on land, and alive. Harry feels so embarrassed. And that translates into anger he keeps on the sharpest side of an outwards-pointing stick.

"Where the fuck were you?! _Jesus_ **_Christ_**!" He rubs his eyes as quick as he can in the hard strokes of his palms. His whole face is red, damp and puffy. His head has a tremendous sting coming through the bone like a drill. It would’ve been easier if he let himself cry really hard, and just run up to Liam and hug him and never let go. It’s nearly masochistic how he’s handling this the worst way. Liam just looks confused and tired, annoyed Harry is screaming at him. Better he doesn’t know, Harry reckons.

"I was over by the cliffs," Liam tells him, pointing back to the cliff. "I was standing back there."

"And you didn’t hear me calling you?!"

Liam points to his headphones like it’s obvious. Because it is.

"Well that’s why I didn’t want you to _fucking_ **_bring_** those things!" He sounds more whiny than he means to. "And what are—" Harry points to the ground at the footprints, though he won’t turn his head to actually look.

But Liam does. And he’s pulling in the seams to see the conclusion Harry made come to view. Liam gives a heavy step down onto the sand next to one of the footprints. And frowning, he glares at Harry as he asks, "Do these look like my fucking footprints?"

Harry looks down. And he can see the footsteps going into the water are smaller. And whatever shoes made them had horizontal ridges on the sole while Liam’s are in circles.

"They’re _not mine_. They’re probably from when the tide was lower."

Harry just nods his head, pacing away from the ocean shore as he walks back to the sand so he can head back to their home base.

"What did you think I’d done?"

"Nothing."

Liam is unsettled, his face turning red. "Did you think I...?" Rephrase it. "Just fucking walked in there?"

Harry sniffles. Still doesn’t know how to stop crying. Like the faucet’s broken in the panic. "No." His voice is croaky and it doesn’t help his projection of normalcy.

"To do what?"

"Nothing."

"To do _what_ , Harry?"

He feels like he’s running away from Liam, when he’d just nearly lost his mind trying to find him. He should be happy.

Liam figured it out. From behind Harry he lets out a dry, bitter chuckle. "Oh my fucking God. That’s brilliant. Yeah that—that’s great." Another resentful laugh. Harry wonders if he’s angry at him. "Wow. _Wooww._ "

"Would you leave me the fuck alone?!"

"I am fucking _fine_ , Harry! I'm fucking _fine_!"

" _Okay!!_ "

"Look, stop. Would you just—"

Harry grunts when he feels Liam’s hands grab at his arm, stopping him, and forcing him to turn around. He crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits, giving a shrug as he stares down at the ground. Liam doesn’t bother insisting on eye contact. Harry doesn’t know if he’s about to just lie to him or not. But he knows it’s all about making him feel better. When he shouldn’t be the priority at all.

"It was just a lot for me for a second. Alright? But I’m fine. And if you think I'd..."

_Don’t say it._

Liam sighs. "…by walking into the ocean while you wait for me by the beach then you must not think very much of me because that's a dick move. Why would I do that? Why do you think I'd do that?" And he really genuinely doesn’t understand why Harry would think that. "I was having a fucking smoke. I was having a fucking _smoke_ "

 _You didn’t say anything about having a smoke before._ Harry’s eyeballs are throbbing as tears keep pouring, dripping down his nose. He’s still trying to process what he’s done and he can’t find a way to do anything. Not even wipe his eyes. He’s tired.

Liam looks like he is too. Eyes red and dull. "Don't cry." He doesn’t have to look up at Harry now that he’s got his heeled boots off. "Harry, come on. I'm fine."

"I'm hungry."

"What?"

Harry sniffs, untucking one of his hands to reach up and wipe his eyes, looking up at Liam to ask a bit unnervingly, "Are you hungry?"

 

***

 

Chicken breast, monterey jack cheese, bacon, tomato, lettuce and honey sauce between two 6-inch sub rolls. It’s tall and fat overstuffed with slices of good food. Harry made one for Liam, too. It’s no secret Harry likes to cook. Can’t do groceries but he sure does know what to do when the cupboard’s full of ingredients. He’s given up on the fancy California health craze. He’s been making his way back to the family recipes—the British cuisine. The beans on toast, the fat meat pies. Harry figures that’s him not caring _about_ his figure after the grueling ordeal of filming Dunkirk. Less inhibitions. And that’s good, he thinks. How great.

"How can you eat while crying?"

Harry blinks back his awareness of his surroundings, turning his head up to look at Liam, who’s already finished eating. "Oh." He sniffs, looking back down at his sandwich before taking another massive bite. He still hasn’t figured out a way to stop crying. His eyes hurt, his nose stuffed. Swallowing is hard. Harry feels like he can’t taste anything. And he doesn’t know what else to say except, "I'm not." Absurdly.

Liam finds it especially distressing. He sits right next to him, their thighs touching because Harry insisted on smooshing next to him. Harry gave him one of the blankets to keep him warm—the dark blue one. They both keep blankets draped over their shoulders, they both eat their sandwiches in silence. Liam has only lasted so long with the latter because he’s been eating to keep from bringing it up. But with his food gone, he can’t help but talk about it. "Your eyes are literally just leaking and you're sniffling and you're red and you're just eating like that's not happening."

Harry’s voice sounds terrible, and worse with food muffling the sound. "I have hay fever."

"I’m sorry. I've gone ruined everything."

"Naa _ahhhhh_..." Harry shakes his head excessively like he's cranked up the dial too high in an awkward haste.

Realizing Harry is just going to deny everything, Liam lies back down on the duvet, pulling up the Vellex blanket to until it’s under his armpits. Harry hears him stirring behind him, shifting around to get to a good spot. The sand is so uncomfortable now that they’ve been sitting on it for so long.

"Harry, I’m not going anywhere," Liam tells him. "I’m not gonna die."

There it is.

Harry’s got his mouth open wide for another bite, but suddenly he closes it before putting down his sandwich. He sniffs, happy Liam can’t see him frowning. "Yeah." Yeah what? He doesn’t know.

"I’ve got my uh… my album and shit coming up. It’s all going good. I’ve got a lot I’m excited about and lots of things that I’ve got going for me that I can look forward to."

Liam the superstar, Liam the R&B pop sensation. Harry’s been anticipating it more desperately these days. Liam’s always had such passion for music. And they can be so different in their taste, in their vision. But Liam goes all the way and then he goes an extra mile. It’s like that with everything, and it’s not something that always works out for him. But that’s just Liam. Doesn’t quit. Aims high, goes high, and never really knows when to stop. It’s like the sun shining when he does that. Harry doesn’t remember when it got to meaning so much to him.

 "Everyone feels a bit off sometimes, but… I’m alright. Really," Liam promises, talking up at the sky. "I’ve not had any… you know, like, bad moments." There’s silence that Liam leaves room for. But nothing comes out of it after a while. So he has to ask, "Harry?" Lifting his head up to look at the back of his head peaking from the beige fur hoodie of his green parka.

"Hm?"

"Are you listening?"

"Of course."

"Well, alright." Liam is disappointed, taking off is snapback and putting his headphones back on. Harry doesn’t have to look at him to know. They’ve reached a dead-end. Liam knows this is the conclusion of their conversation. And Harry promises he loathes this more than Liam does.

Harry isn’t being fair. He’s only thinking about making a quick recovery so this is all easier for himself and he can’t keep doing that. He can’t keep staying in the tight-spaced hole he knows as his comfort zone. Flighty, uncommitted, uncaring, selfish, lying, distant—it all makes him want to cry, suddenly. He isn’t all those horrible things but sometimes he feels like he really is. When he doesn’t do enough, when he backs away, when he locks himself up and denies sanctuary to anyone but himself because he’s afraid of getting his hands dirty. Because he just can’t figure out how to wash it off. He still carries those stains from times past. They just never go away.

The best Harry can do is elementary. He wraps up his sandwich in its napkin and puts it down, wiping his eyes, swallowing as quickly as he can without choking. It can’t be healthy to still keep crying. He can’t really breathe through his nose right. He crawls over to Liam’s side, dragging his blankets with him. Until Harry’s right next to his head. And Liam’s eyes are closed, listening to music, so he hasn’t noticed Harry yet. Harry gives the headphones a little poke. Startles him on accident.

"Oops. Sorry."

Liam takes off his headphones slow, staring up at Harry under a good demeanor. Tired-looking, but good. Alright. "What?"

Harry stays looking at Liam, like he’s still trying to make a draft of what to say. Even though it’s already there. Everything is so hard to say. He gives Liam’s face a quick touch, and then tells him in a groggy voice so slow, "I may not be the best person to... _have_ there. But... I just want you to know that I always _will_ be there. I mean I try to. I do. I don't want you to think I don't care because I do."

Liam just nods in a deep sincerity, quiet so he doesn’t throw Harry off. And Harry’s eyes drift off in the direction of the sea. Maybe to separate himself from heavy emotion again. Imagining it all being washed away by saltwater. Stripping all the dense, dark cores regarding the things he’s learned about loss in too little time for him to deal with right. Never had so many friends gone forever. Now it’s all he thinks about. He doesn’t know how much of Liam’s tired eyes and daunting comments are just something he’s imagining. Doesn’t know what to do anymore.

"I think the worst thing you could be in this business is alone," Harry says, not really knowing if that’s a helpful thing to say. "Just, like, not having anyone there. And you can be alone even when you have a bunch of people in the room with you. I think that's quite scary."

"Yeah."

Harry nods. And he doesn’t know if it sounds too serious for his own taste, but he tells him anyway, "You're not alone." With a poke to his cheek, so it’s silly and not sad. So Liam can snort and poke him on the nose. Harry looks a mess. That’s the real joke—that he’s acting like Liam can’t tell. "I think I'd lose my mind if I ever— you know, if..." He sighs, his brow tensing in a tremble. "…if anything happened to you." Quickly countering by saying, "You know like... like if your puppy ran away."

"Ran away."

Harry nods. Sniffing, rubbing his eyes as he looks down at Liam and pets back his hair from his hairline. "I'd be really sad... And I'd miss my puppy. Because... I love my puppy. Don't wanna... lose it. Because then what if..." what if I don't find it?"

"You get a new one."

He frowns deep, eyes wide. Telling Liam sternly with the shake of his head, "No."

Liam shrugs like he doesn’t mean anything by it. "A better one."

 _Don’t say that._ Harry sniffs, still shaking head. "No… No, absolutely not. I couldn't do that. I could never do that. B-Because my puppy is special. Very, very special to me. And I love him a lot. And I just... want him to be safe. And happy. And watch him be a big stupid dog that's gonna eat my shoes and chew up the carpet and then... a fat old dog. And then it's okay if he dies."

Liam’s eyebrows come up. Quietly, "You said run away."

Harry gives a tight-lipped smile of dejection. Nods his head. _Yes I did. I did say that._ But he stays quiet, fidgeting with his blanket so it hangs off his shoulders. And he just stares at Liam. Liam who smiles back at him to reassure him everything is fine when Harry wanted it to be the other way around. "I told you that I love you, right?"

"You always do," he assures him with a poke. "Love you too, man."

His voice always gets so deep when he mumbles. His throat hurts. Takes a deep, hard breath and scratches at his short hair until it’s a mess when he drops his hand back down. "I can't always say everything I'm feeling, so... I'm sorry about that."

"Yeah but… you don't need to talk to say things."

Harry stays quiet. And Liam suggests,

"You're like an instrumental."

Harry lets out a little laugh. Liam beams a bit.

"Piano. That's my favorite instrument."

"Yeah. Piano’s nice."

There’s a resting point in the air between them, where they sigh and seem to polish themselves into repair. Just quick fix. Enough to get them going again. Liam starts, a bit excited when he murmurs, "Do you want to know what I’ve been listening to?" Before Harry answers he’s pulling out his headphones from around his neck and handing them to Harry.

Harry doesn’t know what it could possibly be. An acoustic love song? An R&B ballad? "Music’s playing already?" he asks, taking the headphones in his hands.

"Yeah. Go on, have a listen."

Harry grabs either side of the speakers with his hands and pulls them out to fit around his big head. They engulf his tiny ears in a big ring that presses into his head, like trapping a spider under a jar. "These headphones are too chunky. They’re heavy," he complains once they’re fitted around his head.

"Can you hear it?"

Harry stays quiet for just a moment and focuses in. "Yeah." Soft classical piano. Romantic period, he recognizes. The volume is low enough that he can hear Liam. Though somewhat muffled. "This whole time you’ve been listening to… classical piano. Alright." And in honesty he admits, "Didn’t quite expect that. That’s nice." And he laughs, handing Liam back the headphones.

"I love classical! It’s Debussy. Do you know him? Clair de Lune. You know Clair de Lune?"

"Yeah, I know Clair de Lune."

"It’s the extended version. So the song just keeps going for an hour. I downloaded it and I just like listening to it. Helps me relax." He pauses, watching Harry quietly sit there. Suddenly he says, "But it also just _really_ reminds me of you and I don’t know why, exactly."

Harry smiles and gives a glance at Liam. "Me?" Suddenly he can’t remember the song. He wishes he could hear it again. "Why, cos it’s never ending?"

 Liam laughs. "No, I actually thought of it way back on tour last year. And I just sort of kept it to myself because I thought, ‘Alright that’s a fucking weird thing to think.’ You ever seen the fans, that they do like, mixtapes or playlists for like, us or fanfiction about us and stuff? I’ve seen them. And it’s songs they relate to like, us or things about us. So it is something people do! So at least like, don’t look at me so weird."

"I’m not!" Harry huffs before laughing, sniffling for what feels like the last time. His face finally dry. "Honestly. I like it. You know me."

"You like weird shit."

"I like weird shit." And Harry lies down. He grabs his blankets and wraps them all on top of him. All his eyes can see is the lazy sky above. No clouds, no sun—like it’s taken a day off. The sunset colors are still lurking under there and Harry wonders why that is. Everything is so warm and dingy. He’s getting sleepy. That’s the sandwich. But it’s mostly the headache. Hates crying. That’s the heartbreak that made a mess inside him. That’s the quiet dejection that’s still left after remembering how the day got bruised and he’d rather lay blame on himself. "What should we do now?" he asks, hoping Liam doesn’t have his headphones on so he can answer.

"I mean… I’d like to stay for a while longer. If that’s alright with you."

"No that’s fine. No one’s here yet, right?"

"Yeah, it’s empty, still."

He sighs. "I could do with ignoring my agent for the rest of the day."

Liam laughs. "That’s Jeff, innit? He’s not gonna get mad?"

"Who cares." Harry closes his eyes, cuddling into his blankets as he mumbles, "I’m supposed to be on vacation anyway. So he can suck my bollocks if he gives me shit for ignoring him."

"Everyone just needs to leave you alone."

"Are you trying to score points with me, Liam?" Harry teases.

"No. I always think people should leave you alone. But let’s not get into that. Here."

"What?" Harry opens his eyes, a bit startled to see that Liam’s sitting right next to him, holding his headphones in his hands.

"Don’t move." Liam carefully adjusts the giant headphone cushions over Harry’s tiny ears. Once perfectly in place, he moves away to reach for his phone. "Just listen to it," he tells Harry as he taps his way through his phone. Through the apps, the missed calls, texts messages from Cheryl. Won’t stop texting him. "Relax a bit, yeah? You’re looking unwell."

"Oh."

Soon enough Harry can hear the music coming through. Piano music coming in a cascade of notes. Only the volume is raised up high, and Harry can’t hear a thing of the world around him. And it sounds so beautiful now. Wraps around him, engulfs him in a satin feeling. He grins, his buck bunny teeth coming over his bottom lip. Because he remembers. This _reminds_ Liam of _him_. Clair de Lune. That has to be the prettiest, softest piano song there is.

"Can you hear it?" Liam says. But Harry can’t hear him. Although he knows what he means when he points to the headphones, eyebrows raised as he gives a thumbs up and a nod. Harry gives him a thumbs up back, and Liam smiles to gesture an ‘OK’ with his index finger and thumb. And Harry gives a satisfied sigh, his puffy eyes squinty as he starts to get sleepy. Everything seems to hit him all at once.

It's just one song. But it’s the most curious, remarkable and beautiful thing Harry's ever had happen to him. For music to bear his semblance with no words. A collection of sounds arranged in a shapeless sequence. And this is what Liam’s been listening to all day. This is what he listens to when he wants to relax, feel better. _You did this for me._ He doesn’t understand how Liam manages to make himself a more wonderful human being every time, but he does. Harry’s eyes still sting, and it reminds him of how he thought he’d lost him forever just an hour ago. He’s so exhausted from it all. And Liam knows. Harry bit off more than he could chew and maybe Liam’s trying to say, ‘That’s okay.’ _But it really is, isn’t it?_ Everything is okay. They’re both happy. Harry won’t say this was all a failure. Mostly because he’s been trying to be an optimist all year, but also because it’s hard to hold a bad feeling when he’s listening to this song, this music that holds his silhouette. Harry wants to know just how much Liam thinks of him. All day, actually, if Liam’s really been listening to these songs all day. The music is supposed to hold all the answers, but it really says more about Liam than it does Harry. The palette of this gesture. The inner workings, the stitch pattern of the thread that kept this together.

Harry doesn’t look up at the sky. As Clair de Lune plays on, Harry’s sleepy eyes are on Liam as he just sits there looking out at the ocean. Like he wants to give Harry privacy. Or maybe he’s embarrassed. The piano is soft, slow, cascading through every note gently. Harry thinks about the parallels, how the song could bring him to Liam’s mind. And Harry gives him a mean poke in the side, giggling when Liam turns around with a playful frown. And then Harry outstretches his hands at him, motioning with his fingers at the space between, the space he’s got ready for Liam. Liam doesn’t laugh or narrow his eyes at him for being so needy and touchy. No reluctance even for laughs. He just grabs the dark blue nylon blanket and places it over himself, grabbing at the corners so that when he comes over to lay on top of Harry, the nylon blanket falls on top of both their bodies. Cheek resting on his chest, arms around his waist, while Harry keeps his resting over Liam’s shoulders, cradling his head and stoking up and down his neck. And it feels like that’s where he’s always belonged. Harry doesn’t want him anywhere else except closer.

And there comes to be a mutual understanding of that in the sixteen seconds it takes for Liam to crawl his way up Harry’s body and nestle his hips between his thighs when Harry spreads them wide to welcome him in. They both give that first smile into each other’s eyes. Standing under some make-believe that they’re a lot younger, a lot less rich, and a lot more stupid. Harry hearing the piano’s rendering of Clair de Lune, and Liam hearing the stormy sea. And that’s how they take it—that first kiss. Predictable. Liam’s got the faint taste of nicotine, still. And he kisses so slow and good. Harry can’t move his head much but he’s enjoying the vulnerability. Liam hums into his mouth, cupping his cheeks because he’s so sweet and romantic. Harry’s hands come around Liam’s waist immediately to touch under his sweater. He’s warm and strong, and not as firm as he used to be. Harry feels like he’s touching Liam to the pace of the piano. In light, careful touches. In smooth, playful kisses. Liam is zipping down his parka slow, and Harry’s already smiling against his lips.

"A Hawaiian shirt? Really?" Liam laughs. Harry can’t hear, but he already knows just by watching him laugh down at his shirt. Harry can hear himself giggle in a muffled amplification. Must be the headphones. This all feels so sweet with the piano being all he can hear. No wonder Liam kept putting them on. Harry fidgets with the buttons a bit, picking at it with his nail while he looks at Liam. He gets the message, dipping down for a kiss to his pink lips as he undoes every button down Harry’s shirt.

Harry sends another message. Hand to the front of Liam’s jeans. Squeezing at his crotch. Liam thrusts forward into his touch and Harry can feel how he moans into his mouth. Gets the message. He unbuttons his jeans and yanks them with his underwear until they’re down to his thighs and Harry can get his hands on what he wants. Liam’s cock is soft, still, and Harry rubs him up, squeezes his balls while Liam gets to kissing his bare neck. He thrusts himself against Harry’s hand, panting into his skin while his own hand goes down to Harry’s clothed crotch to give him attention, too. Unzip him. So enthusiastic. Manhandles Harry a bit so he can get his jeans off completely, leaving Harry naked from the waist down. Under Liam, under the blankets. And that moment of rough squeezing and pulling drives a current down between Harry’s bare legs. The piano flutters quickly like leaves dancing through the air, overwhelming Harry at the contrast of this with real life. Flustered and red in the face, Liam hardening in his hand while his own cock swells under Liam’s. Something so gentle with something so electrifying. And Liam’s so good at kissing Harry. Sucking bruises into his skin, licking over his nipples, kissing them, kissing everywhere. He’s being so wild about it all, so passionate as the ocean drives him on and sets his pace. And to Harry, it’s all to the sound of soft, romantic piano. Helplessly, perpetually, looking at him through heart eyes, yeux de coeur; moonlight, clair de lune.

This isn’t sex music. It’s not sexy music. It’s a Romantic period piano playing in butterfly flutters and flickering pedals in the wind. It’s so new. And Harry can’t love it more than he already does. He pulls back his hand and switches to rubbing Liam’s dick with the grind of his hips, feeling him against his hole. Clair De Lune is playing so slow, and this really feels like a wet dream. "You feel so good…" Harry whimpers. The blankets are drawing in their body heat, enveloping them in the warmth of their own lust. Liam kisses up his neck, jerking himself off against Harry’s hole as Harry thrusts against him. "Feels so good…"

Liam’s sweating, red in the face as he grabs Harry’s ass with both his hands. Rubbing up his skin, pushing back his thighs as he looks down. Hungry, breathing hard. Drags his thumb over Harry’s hole, rubbing him, teasing him. Harry starts jerking himself off, spreading his legs wider as he thrusts up slow like he’s begging Liam to keep going. So he does. Harry’s got his eyes closed when he feels Liam start to finger him. He would argue it’s what he does best. Slow but hard, curling his fingers inside him while his other hand is stroking his dick. And Liam takes his time fingering him with spit-slick fingers. Harry gives him sighs and bitten lips, touching himself so Liam’s got something real nice to see, to get him hard. Harry’s watching his face, touching over his bare chest flushed pink under his tattoos. Keeps his eyes half-lidded and looking up, his hand down at his cock as he strokes himself. He can feel Liam thrusting himself against his ass cos he’s anxious, impatient. Making Harry moan with a furrowed brow as he finger-fucks him hard and fast. Two fingers sliding in and out, curving up once he’s in to his knuckle and pushing onto his prostate hard, watching Harry’s breathing shutter before he slides his wet fingers back out. And he pushes in a third finger. Harry’s whimpering, squeezing around Liam as his eyes fall closed. The piano makes him feel so dreamy, like this is all a fantasy.

"Li…" he says as quietly as he can. But Liam catches up on it quick, turning his head up to look at him before bending down to rest himself on top of him with only one elbow holding his weight. Harry moves his hand down to reach for Liam’s dick, neglected in his devotion to him. "I want it," he whimpers, looking up at him through his glassy wide-set eyes. Green so bright, lashes so feathery. Liam groans, sliding his fingers out of Harry’s hole. Harry strokes Liam’s fat cock in a tight grip to satisfy his own need for servitude, just to watch Liam pant and imagine what sounds he’s making, feeling his foreskin sliding up and down in his hand. The piano is playing so soft and light. Harry feels so sleepy, not realizing he’s mewling just a bit. He lets his grip fall loose to shift his hips, grabbing the back of his knees so he’s spread out nice and wide, and Liam can slip in easy. Slip in fast. And in one slow, smooth stroke Liam’s cock is inside Harry down to the base. Harry holds his breath, eyebrows curved up. And then he’s letting out a whine, touching down his belly and up on the inside of his thighs. Can’t keep himself quiet. His body is oversensitive and drained, and Liam feels so big. Thrusting into without pulling out yet, like he wants Harry to feel every inch of him, satisfy his greed just so he’s whimpering when it’s sliding back out. Harry feels like he hasn’t been fucked in forever. Hasn’t felt real intimacy in so long.

Intimacy. That must be what Clair de Lune sounds like. And Liam says it reminds him of Harry. It’s so weird how emotional this all rings. Liam making sure all _three_ blankets are on top of them both as he lets his whole weight drop forward, holding himself up by his hands. Harry rubbing his hands up his back, over his sweater, up to the back of his neck so Liam can say close him. Liam’s eyes have fallen closed, brow furrowed, whimpering as he takes all this in with the draw of his hips back and then forward. It’s a bit mesmerizing for Harry, how good he seems to make Liam feel. His hand comes down to touch himself, squeezing his balls in his hand and letting his head drop back. Liam builds up an awkward, desperate rhythm. He must be moaning hard, rocking Harry’s body with every thrust. Harry can hear his own breathing, his own gasps. The faster Liam goes, the slower the piano seems to play. An insensible amalgam that leaves Harry numbed in the warmest bliss.

"Fuck yeah…" he whimpers before biting down on his lip, incapable of subduing the string of whimpers coming with every jab Liam’s cock gives inside him. Brow furrowed, face sweaty and pink. It feels like a different world—everything so physically frantic under the lull of a piano. It should be weird and it should be stupid but it’s passed the point where Harry can do anything about it. It all just washes over him. He wraps his legs around Liam’s lower back, bringing him in closer, obsessed. Whimpers again, "Kisses…" Pulling open his shirt until it goes over just a bit off his shoulders. He watches Liam smile, say something.

"You’re gonna catch a cold," is what he said. Harry couldn’t hear. Liam bends down and kisses over Harry’s chest. And then his hands are tucked inside the parka, touching the bare skin of his waist. "You’re so warm, Harry…" he hums in jagged breaths against his chest. Harry doesn’t hear that either. Liam’s lips are soft, his breath warm, his hips hard as they press against Harry’s ass. Sucking on Harry’s nipples because they’re so puffy and hard, snapping his hips forward hard as he fucks him. The piano makes it feel so sweet, so loving. Harry doesn’t know how many times it’s looped now but it makes time feel as irrelevant as it really is. Every touch, every twitch, every hum—isolated and emphasized under the prettiest lullaby. Just Clair de Lune looping for the millionth time and the kisses, the bliss, the flush of his skin.

Harry feels so jealous, suddenly. Gasping, his eyes watering just a bit under his closed eyes. No one’s ever gotten fucked by Liam while wearing his headphones, he thinks defensively. Listening to the music that he reminds Liam of. Doesn’t do this with Cheryl _. I’m better. He likes me better._ Can’t roll her hips like Harry does. Can’t be as pretty as he is. He wonders if it’s her that makes Liam miserable and he’d love to think so. So jealous. Whimpering about it, wrapping his arms around Liam’s neck and pouting as he pulls him down to kiss him, his biceps clenching as he holds him close. Liam cups his face and Harry’s so happy he does that. Palms warm. Breath warm. Everything warm.

His cum especially. Harry doesn’t realize he’s cumming until his thighs are trembling and hips are lifting up as he cums all over his chest. Clair de Lune playing as he watches through watering eyes how his abs clench, his cum spurting from the pink head of his cock. He feels his orgasm like a church bell ringing down his belly all the way to his curling toes. He’s still cumming when Liam grabs him by the thighs and fucks him hard and fast, bent over with his weight on top of him as he moans into his neck. His balls slapping against Harry’s ass, his mouth leaving bruises into the skin of Harry’s neck. Groans hard and deep until he’s holding his breath. Harry wraps his arms around his back, holding him down against his body. Feeling him, nuzzling against him. And then he feels Liam spilling inside with gasps muffled into his pale neck. Harry bites his lip, focusing on how Liam’s cock pulses as he cums inside him. Liam holds onto his waist and starts kissing him, rocking his hips against him as he rides out his orgasm and softens with quiet mewls. And that’s so romantic, Harry thinks. Liam slides his cock out from inside him and rubs his fingers into the cum that runs down his skin. He kisses him soft, now. Breaking it off to pant against his cheek, only to kiss him again.

Harry feels like he should say something. But he’s sleepy, eyes closed. And he wants Liam to say something first. If only out of curiosity. Harry feels Liam push himself off his body, moving one leg over until he’s out from between Harry’s legs and Harry can let them come down. "Jesus, I’m sore," he chuckles with tiny whine. Suddenly he feels the headphones being pulled away. And he doesn’t know why he whines again, opening his eyes.

"Oh now you like them…" Liam teases in a mumble. He folds them up and puts them down on the duvet before giving an exhausted sigh, pulling up his jeans from his thighs and zipping them back up. He’s still kind of sweaty, still mostly on top of Harry. Liam knows Harry likes the post-sex cuddling so he sticks around, looks down at him as he pets his hair.

Harry hears the ocean for the first time again. It surprises him a bit. They’re at a bay, he remembers. Right. _How long have we been here?_ He wonders. But he almost doesn’t want to know. It’s so quiet, so peaceful. He got fucked by the sea and that feels right. Liam’s looking down at him and that feels right. And looking up into his eyes Harry would tell him. _"I like the songs. They’re really pretty."_ And give a little smile, which he does anyway, despite not saying a word. But he would've said, _"I'm happy they’re me."_

Liam smiles. Friendly, happy. _"I'm happy you're here,"_ he'd say. Harry knows he would. Except Liam really says it. "I'm happy you're here."

And Harry gets goosebumps under every follicle of his body. Laughing a little. Maybe a bit emotional. He feels a pressing in his chest and he wonders what that might be. Without meaning to he puts his hand over his heart. And it knocks right under his palm desperately. Like it wants to tell him something. Like it wants to break free. "Listen," he tells Liam, tapping at his chest with his fingertips. And he doesn't know why the insistence, why the giddy desperation as he holds open his parka. But it must mean something. It has to. Liam can tell, he lets himself come over to Harry’s chest. And he listens. And this is the stupidest thing, Harry thinks. His heart is surely beating faster. As if he hasn't known Liam for six years. As if there's something odd about having his friend listen to his heartbeat. Is there? Liam isn't saying anything. He's listening. And Harry feels worried for a moment. What is his heart saying? What is it telling Liam? That he’s alive, mostly.

"Your heart’s beating so fast." He chuckles, and that makes Harry laugh, too. He doesn’t know why he brings a hand to Liam’s head, and just touch over what centimeters of hair he has wrapped around his scalp. Like a carpet. Thick. Doesn’t feel anything like Harry’s when they’d bring out the clippers for Dunkirk. Now he can’t wait for it to grow long again. He can’t believe his hair is really all gone. He’ll always resent that. But he doesn’t care to resent anything now, or think about anything now. Harry’s running his hand down Liam’s back, rubbing him up and down for the sake of intimacy. _Intimacy_.

Harry can’t believe how much he loves this. He’s still naked from the waist down, still has Liam’s cum between his legs. The sea crashes in the distance and comes to touch the shore in a rustle. Almost hypnotizing in their state. This feels so primary and pure. Harry’s so stupid from running away from it all the time. But that’s probably because he always sees it coming. But not with Liam. Love is always there with him. Harry never notices. "You’re cold," he mumbles when he reaches back to touch over Liam’s fingers, locked across his back. "You cold?"

"Yeah."

Harry tries to sit up but Liam quickly gets up first to assure him, "No no, stay there." And it’s Liam who grabs all three Nylon blankets—lilac, sky blue and navy blue—and settles himself on top of him, grabbing the blankets and adjusting them himself on top of both their bodies. The dark blue one first. Then the sky blue one. And the lilac one he tucks under Harry’s back until it can come back over his shoulders like a poncho, and Harry laughs through the whole maneuver. He knows what Liam’s next move is.

Sure enough, Liam has taken place by Harry’s side and slid his hand under his head to beckon him for a good cuddle. Harry smiles and does what he does best—disregard personal space. Like a stubborn puppy he pushes against Liam as hard as he can until he’s closer than any friend should really be—not that they haven’t crossed that line years ago, and given an especially enthusiastic trespass just minutes earlier. Harry never doesn’t understand anything. He just knows he’d die without this. Liam is tucking the lilac blanket closer until it’s around Harry’s shoulder and he’s got three layers of blankets on top of him in a display of his most ludicrous show of satisfaction yet. Because he loves babying him. He loves taking care of him even when the priorities don’t call for it. And Harry thinks about how he wants Liam to do this forever. Hold his waist, hold him tight. For the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and let me know what you think in the comments.


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